In the Shadows
by Nina28
Summary: All that bullshit about taking things a day at a time? Crap…they were lucky if they had good hours, good minutes or seconds.


****AN:**I started writing this ficlet last week, before the episode aired, before the pictures from episode 2 came out. Also, I'm in dire need of some wincesty love.**

So be warned: angst and schmoop ahead of you

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><p>It said something about their lives when Dean recognized the smell of blood right away, even in Bobby's house, so ripe with other pungent smells.<p>

One drop, two, three…he followed the trail, like in a macabre Hansel and Gretel reenaction, wary of the silence in the house and how heavy it suddenly felt.

Everything felt havier these days, harder and harsher, but Dean was getting good at going with the new flow, he was adapting, he had had to learn and do it fast, for Sam.

All that bullshit about taking things a day at a time? Crap…they were lucky if they had good hours, good minutes or seconds. When it happened it was like Sam had never even gone to hell in the first place: he smiled, he researched, he was the man who had hugged him in Bobby's study, his brother…his lover? companion?

He was the same man, with more memories and a sharpness in his movements, a light in his eyes, that hadn't been there before. A good day was when they lied down at nights and he could bitch at Sam because he kept hogging the covers and remind him he wasn't a freaking teddy bear.

The good days or _hours _were when they could be in silence, drinking a beer, their knees touching, their shoulders brushing and it was like neither of them had ever gone to hell in the first place. It was like hell didn't exist at all_._

The bad days…came out of nowhere: it might be something Sam had heard or seen, sometimes it was the noises that house made, wood realigning itself or some other shit…and Sam would implode.

He never screamed, sometimes he barely made a sound…and Dean didn't know whether it was worse seeing his brother in silent agony, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his hands clawed at something invisible, or the fear of what his screams might be like.

He paused, short of breath for a moment, it was happening more and more often: too much booze, too little sleep, sometimes he had actually remind himself to breathe.

God, they were_so fucked._

Blood…drops of it, like quarters, on the floor, paving the way to the bathroom. Bobby's bathroom, unusually clean for a single man, with white tiles on the floor, white sink, a mirror that seemed to reflect the worse of them every time one of them actually bothered to take a look at their reflected image.

He knew, even before he paused outside the door, that it was Sam. Sam was bleeding, shedding his blood on the floor of Bobby's house, and Dean was pausing outside the door, breathing, willing himself to open the door, hoping Sam hadn't locked himself in.

There were other scenarios in his mind, of course. There always were…but Dean wasn't contemplating them, not really. There were other priorities.

There was Sam…and breathing and when had they become synonyms?

There was the blood and the silence and the closed door.

The door wasn't locked, but the bathroom was in the dark, as he took one step he could hear glass shattering under his soles…too much for it to be just a lightbulb; he didn't talk, not right away, he let Sam - or some part of him, at least - acknowledge his presence, in the dark. Somehow Sam could always recognize him, he could always tell that he didn't mean any danger for him.

He didn't move, trying to adjust to the darkness in the small bathroom, spotting Sam, huddled in a corner, his knees drawn against his chest, his head against the tiles, his eyes open unseeing, his breath coming out in pants…as if he had been running a marathon. And maybe he had. Maybe they had both been running for too long.

He took one step and Sam flinched, Dean saw him move, trying to make himself smaller. It had probably been the noise of glass crunching under his soles to prompt Sam to react. He himself had come to hate that sound after hell.

He took another step, and could see Sam more clearly now, could see him studying, a puzzled expression on his face. Sam tilted his head up, and Dean noticed scratches on his brother's forehead.

"You were dead…" Sam whispered, "you kept dying and they laughed, told me they'd stop if I screamed and I did..but you kept dying."

Dean clenched his fists against his sides, forcing himself not to move, not yet. "I'm here, Sammy…" he said.

Sam shook his head no, and Dean couldn't help it, he moved, closing the distance between them as he knelt in front of him. Sam still wasn't looking at him, Dean knew he felt his closeness, he could tell because his brother's body was slowly but surely relaxing, his hands now loose on his knees, and not gripping them.

"They said…they said…" Sam took a big gulp of air, and Dean forced himself not to close his eyes, he forced himself not to reach for Sam, he didn't want to startle him.

Dean had nightmares…when he was exhausted enough to sleep, and sometimes it was one of the nightmares he had had in hell: he went to Sam, to touch him, to hug him, to make sure he was real, alive and well after a hunt and he shattered, went to pieces, like broken glass, under his touch.

It wasn't a dream, though. It was reality…it was their life…and he'd be damned if he could let Sam go to pieces without doing anything.

"I'm here, Sammy!" He repeated, his voice firmer, louder and Sam tilted his head on a side, focusing on him.

"How do I know it's real?" Sam asked and for a moment he sounded like a kid, like when he used to ask him all kind of questions because he was the big brother, who always had all the answers.

Like when he had asked him about love, once…

Or death…

He felt sweat collecting at his nape, and the smell of blood, stronger, invading his nostrils.

Sam's bood. _His _blood_._

He moved, reaching out to touch Sam, almost expecting his brother to lean away, to flinch, but Sam didn't; he slowly exhaled when his hand went to brush a damp lock away from his forehead.

"It's real," Dean said, "I'm here, Sammy…_we're here…"_

He felt Sam's hand, before seeing it, grabbing his forearm and Sam moved, a giant shadow in the half shadowed bathroom, warm and _his._He felt the ghost of Sam's breath against his face, when Sam whispered, "What's real, Dean? They made it seem real…how do I know?"

Sam's hand trailed up, to touch him, to make sure he was real, it stopped for a moment above his heart. "They always fucked up…they didn't know your heartbeat…" he said after a moment, and Dean had to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat when he heard the hint of a smile in his brother's voice.

"But then…" Sam trailed and his hand gripped a fistful of his shirt, as he shook. Dean's arms went around Sam's shoulders. Sam wasn't fighting him, he was breathing heavily against his neck, as another wave of memories, flashbacks from the cage were shaking him to the core.

Sam tilted his head up, moving against him, and Dean felt his stomach drop. Sam wasn't really there, in that moment; memories of hell had trapped him, again, and Dean did the only thing he could think of: he took Sam's face in his hands, cradling it, for a moment.

He talked, slowly, saying, "Every night, every single one…I checked the house, the devil trap under the carpet, Ben's room, the lines of salt…and then I…I'd close my eyes, just for a second…and you were there, Sammy. You were always there. And I had to keep my promise"

Sam's breath was evening out, a warm whisper against his palm, when he turned his head and his lips ghosted against his skin, he could feel the blood tickling down Sam's arm, staining his shirt, but he didn't stop, he stroked Sam's jaw with the pad of his thumbs and continued, "You were there, telling me that things would be okay…"

Sam smiled weakily and asked, "Did they?"

Sam's breath tickled against his palm, and he could feel the chuckle bubbling up in his throat…and something that, were he another man, could be tears, stinging in his eyes.

He looked down at Sam and incredibly enough Sam snorted, his face still cradled in his hands, he was still huddled into a corner, he could still feel Sam's blood, he could still smell it and his knees were killing him, but Sam was snorting, a huff of breath against his skin and a mumbled, "Yeah, I thought so…"

"You came back" Dean said, moving, closing completely the distance between Sam and he. He felt Sam tense, for a second, against him, and then relax…melt against him.

"Did I?" Sam asked and even in that dark bathroom he could see how bright Sam's eyes were; how, for a moment, he was his only answer…

Dean nodded, wishing he could tell Sam some girly thing…like he knew his heartbeat as well, and he knew he was real. He wished he could tell him that there were days he still felt on the rack as well, days where he doubted of everything and everyone…himself included…but Sam always brought him back.

"You always do, Sammy…" He whispered eventually.

Another snort, and then Sam pulled back, and with a chuckle said, "what happened to no chick flicks moments?"

"Oh, blow me…" Dean said, but he was smiling as well.

"That can be arranged" Sam replied and he heard the teasing tone in his voice.

"Yeah, it can…but later. First we need to…" Dean trailed and then stopped when Sam's hand closed around his wrist.

"I will…can you just…stay here?" Sam asked, and he sounded hesitant. Like Dean could go anywhere. Like he would want to.

He nodded, his hand seeking Sam's blindly and finding it, a brush of fingers, a promise and a tether: to reality, to the present…the past and every moment in between and after.

A quick peck on the lips and Dean stood, his hand was on the light switch when Sam said, "there's something else they never got right about you…there"

"What?" Dean asked.

"You always come back for me too…" Sam whispered. "and your lips always taste of coffee and mint."

Dean closed his eyes. That… was Sam…and he was there, with him.

That was a good moment.

That was real.

-the end.


End file.
